


So Long and So Well

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 03:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from the episode "Among the Philistines."</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Long and So Well

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #14 under the pen name Laura Brush.

_"To a fine soldier, and a good friend."_

 

          Mrs. Pennysworth paused in the hallway just outside the semi-dark living room.  She could hear Mr. Drake buzzing up to talk to the colonel and pursed her lips, trying to decide what to do.

          She very much wanted to talk to Ironhorse, but she guessed that the exact same could be said of Mr. Drake as well.  With a soft sigh she left them to their discussion and retreated back to the kitchen where she stood in the center of the room for a long moment, trying to decide what to do.  She needed to do something, anything to help get her mind off their recent loss…

          She smiled wryly and shook her head.  The language of government service was completely inadequate when it came to expressing the loss of a friend, especially a longtime friend like Thomas Albert Kensington.  She decided on gingerbread.  Tom loved her gingerbread, even if he did find "a pinch" of something missing in every batch.

          She gathered the ingredients and set them out on the empty kitchen table.  Bowls, spoons, measuring cups, and her hand-held blender followed.  Blinking back the tears that crowded her vision, she measured out a cup and a half of all-purpose flour and sifted it into the large mixing bowl.

          The falling white powder reminded her of the first time they'd met – Austria in the early winter.  The snow was falling and she was hurrying to reach her exchange point on time.  The information she carried with her would help several German scientists make their escape from behind the Iron Curtain.

          She reached the small flower shop just after dark.  Reaching for the door, she slipped on the ice and started to fall.  He had caught her, chuckling in French that she ought to be more careful or she was going to get herself hurt.

          She smiled, remembering the way she'd pulled herself up and leveled him with a haughty glare and replied, also in French, that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, thank you very much.  His eyes twinkled, and he opened the door for her, both of them stepping into the shop.  He gestured and told her to buy her flowers.  She'd insisted that he go first.  The shop keeper, another agent working for the Americans, listened to the exchange, then roared with laughter.  She and Tom both realized that they were there for the same reasons.

          She added a half teaspoon of baking soda to the flour.  He was livid.  Their covers might have been compromised.  Bringing them together was too dangerous.  If they were caught they could be forced to describe the other.

          A teaspoon each of cinnamon and ginger joined the mix.  Their contact assured that would not be the case; they were being reassigned.  They'd be leaving Austria day after the morrow.

          A half-teaspoon of cloves joined the other spices, and she added just a pinch more without realizing she was doing it for a man who would never taste the results.  A fourth-teaspoon of nutmeg completed the mix and she set that aside.

          How many times had she worked with Tom in those first years after the war?  Too many to count, and far too many to remember.  She wasn't even surprised when it turned out that her husband-to-be knew Tom.

          Pouring a half-cup of sugar into another bowl, she recalled Tom's expression when she told him she was getting married.  "Guess I missed my opportunity, didn't I?" he'd said.

          She'd nodded, a little sad.

          "Well, as long as you're happy, Greta."

          She was, she assured him.  And it was the truth.

          Stepping up to the stove, she turned the heat on to boil the water in the tea kettle, then turned back to the table.  Adding a fourth cup of butter, she creamed the butter with the sugar, then added two egg whites and let the beater run a little extra long.

          The kettle whistled and she paused long enough to make herself a cup of tea.

          "Mind if I join you?"

          She turned, not really surprised to find Ironhorse there.  "No, not at all, Colonel.  Is blackberry all right?"

          "Fine," he said, walking over to sit at the far end of the cluttered table.  "Gingerbread?"

          She nodded, making his tea.  Adding two sugar cubes to both cups, she stirred them, then carried one to the colonel, setting it in front of him.  He sampled the brew and smiled.  "Perfect, as always."

          "Thank you, Colonel," she said, stepping back to the stove.

          He watched as she added two tablespoons of the hot water to a half cup of molasses and stirred until they blended together.

          "How are you?" he asked as she turned back to the mixing bowl.

          She picked up the blender and gradually added the watered-down molasses to the butter mix, making sure it blended together well.

          "I'll be all right," she finally said.  "He was a good friend.  I knew him so long, and so well, it's hard to imagine he won't be in here tomorrow morning, complaining about my coffee and trying to filch a sample of this bread."

          She added a third of the flour mix, then a fourth of a cup of buttermilk, beating it until it was smooth.  Another third of the flour mix and another fourth cup of buttermilk followed, and she beat it smooth again before she added the last of the flour and spices and beat it for several minutes.

          Ironhorse sat, drinking his tea and watching the procedure.  It wasn't uncommon for him to do so, and she was decidedly grateful for the company.  More than anything she didn't want to be in an empty kitchen.  Usually Tom would be sitting at the other end of the table, the two men arguing about the aliens, or they'd be in the living room, their voices clear but inarticulate through the walls.

          She turned the blender off and set it in the sink, realizing that in his own way the colonel was missing Tom as much as she was.  After all, Tom was the only other military man at the Cottage.

          She reached over and turned her Crockpot up to high and reached for the two-pound coffee can that she'd washed earlier.

          "Is Mr. Drake all right?" she asked as she rubbed a generous portion of butter over the inside of the metal surface.

          "He will be.  He's feeling a little responsible right now."

          "Like you are?" she asked, pouring flour into the can and making sure it coated the butter.

          The colonel set his empty teacup down.  "Yes, like I am."

          "But you know better," she said, turning the mix into the can.

          "I'm trying," he admitted.

          She covered the can and set it in the Crockpot.  Turning back to the table, she wasn't surprised to find the colonel already helping to clear it.

          Together they washed and dried the bowls and utensils, then put them away.  The chore done, she made them more tea.

          Sitting down at the table with the soldier, she reached out and patted the back of his hand.  "Please, Colonel, don't blame yourself."

          Paul gave her a slight lopsided grin.  "I'll try.  You know, I told Norton that I thought Tom would be proud to have given his life in this war, but now I'm not so sure."

          "Why?" she asked.  "I heard Tom say on many occasions that this was the most important assignment he'd ever had."

          "I know, but it's… so damned secret.  No one's going to know what he died for."

          She gave the colonel an indulgent smile.  "Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even ten years from now, but one day…  One day everyone will know.  I know that.  When all is said and done, this is the war that all future generations will point to as the turning point for mankind."

          "If we win."

          "We'll win, Paul," she assured.  "We can't afford not to."  She patted his hand again.  "Stay here."

          Standing, she disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a small bottle of obviously old brandy.  She set it on the table in front of Ironhorse, saying, "Tom gave us this for our wedding and told us to hold on to it until he died, then to drink a toast to him.  I'd like to share that toast with you, Colonel."

          He looked up, meeting her gaze and holding it, making sure she was telling him the truth.  He nodded and opened the bottle while she rinsed the teacups and set them back on the table.  He poured a small amount of the rich amber liquid into each of the tiny china cups.

          She picked hers up and he followed suit.  "To a fine soldier, and a good friend," he said and they each drank a sip.

          "To an old, old friend," she said.  "You will be dearly missed.  Tell all our friends I'll be along one day."

          They drank again.

          She set her empty cup down and poured another two-fingers in.  She gestured with the bottle and Ironhorse slid his empty cup over for her to add the same to his.

          They each took another swallow before she said seriously, "When I was an operative for this government I had few friends, and still fewer people I could trust.  I married one of them, and the other was Tom Kensington."

          "He was a fine man."

          She met his gaze.  "Whatever it takes, we have to have a military squad assigned here."

          "I know."

          She reached out again and rested her hand on Paul's arm.  "It wasn't supposed to be like this, was it?"

          He shook his head.  "Blackwood and the others were supposed to stay here and deal with the problem… scientifically.  They weren't supposed to end up in the field, and the aliens were never supposed to find this place."

          "But they are in the field and the aliens did manage to infiltrate us."

          He nodded.

          "Colonel, a long time ago women weren't supposed to be in the field either, but it didn't take too long for the governments of most countries to discover that they needed us, needed us out there, where it wasn't safe, and where we faced the same dangers as our male counterparts.  And we went willingly because we thought— no, we _knew_ , we were doing the right thing.  We were doing a job that had to be done.  And some of us died."

          "But—"

          "And despite all of our best efforts," she interrupted.  "Infiltrators managed to work themselves into our ranks.  And they did it for the very same reasons.  They thought they were right, and that what they did, they must.  And people died, people on both sides.  It was sad and tragic, but inevitable, and unavoidable.  There is no blame," she said, squeezing his arm.  "We're all doing what we have to, Colonel.  And we all know the dangers are real."

          Ironhorse sighed and looked up, meeting her compassionate gaze.  "You would've given my grandfather a run for his money in the wisdom department."

          She smiled.  "I'll take that as a compliment."

          "You should."

          "Do you think they'll give us a squad?"

          He nodded.  "Wilson and I've been pushing through channels until now, but I think this will free up the personnel and money a lot sooner.  It just makes me mad that it took someone dying—"

          "It took the threat becoming real," she corrected.  "Colonel, for as long as I can remember it's taken events like this to drive us forward.  Maybe it's that we like to take too optimistic a view of things, or maybe the way the system works requires a two-by-four applied between the eyes to make us see straight—"

          "I'd agree with the latter."

          "But in any case, so long as good comes of it, we can't ask for more.  War is a fickle mistress, Colonel.  She'll love you one day and scratch your eyes out the next.  All we can do is move on, fight the next fight, and pray that when it's over the right side's won."

          "And if the right side hasn't won?"

          She shrugged.  "Then we'd better pray that the afterlife is a reality, since that's where we're all going to be spending a lot of time."

          He chuckled softly.  "You're an amazing woman, Mrs. Pennysworth."

          "Yes," she said with a teasing grin.  "I am."

          They sat, talking and sipping on the aged brandy for two and a half hours.  Then she stood and took the gingerbread out of the Crockpot while Ironhorse made them coffee.  The smell of the spices filled the room with a warm familiarity.

          Removing the cover, she gently forced a knife in between the bread and the metal can, then tilted it upside down and pulled the can up, leaving behind the gingerbread roll.  She cut them each a slice while he poured the coffee and washed the two teacups.

          They sat and ate the treat in silence, a quiet tribute to a man of few words and many courageous actions.


End file.
